The Silence and the Echo
by GodModeSue
Summary: The Mysterious Benedict Society never formed. Curtain won without a fight. Five years later, Reynard Muldoon is kidnapped from his orphanage bedroom by a girl with startling blue eyes.
1. The Kidnapping of Reynard Muldoon

This story is inspired by 'The Dead Can't Testify', in this same archive, by DramaQueen69981. However, the differences are, I think, substantial enough to constitute original (ha ha) fanfiction.

I am writing without a beta reader. There are bound to be typos and small errors of the sort a fresh pair of eyes would catch immediately. If you see 'em, point 'em out. I'll fix them, and we'll all rest easier knowing the world to be a more grammatical place.

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I. The Kidnapping of Reynard Muldoon

The Recruiter's eyes were closed and his lips were twisted into a careless, cruel smirk. Reynie watched him with just the right amount of sullenness, mindful not to let any of his true feelings spill onto his face. It was a dangerous game he played, but Reynie played it better than anyone.

"Well, my good fellow," the Recruiter said finally, opening one eye and chuckling at his own joke, "you're just as boring as ever."

"Sorry, sir."

"I take that back. You're even more boring than you were last year. I didn't think that was possible. Did you think that was possible?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Why does this feel so familiar? It's like I'm reading from a script. Tell me, do you get that too?"

_Of course_, thought Reynie. _Because we do this every year. Every year since I was twelve, you bastard, and you still haven't got a clue._ Out loud he said, "I think so, sir," because he was used to dealing with recruiters and used to dealing with idiots, and knew exactly what to say and why saying anything else was a very bad idea.

The Recruiter waved him lazily towards the door. "Get out. See you next year. Bye bye."

Reynie resisted the urge to stick his tongue out as he left.

There were six or seven children in the hall. Like Reynie, all were dressed in the white tunic and gray pants that denoted their status as wards of the state. They were lined up in descending order of age, but the line had sagged and stretched in the thirty minutes since Reynie had entered the conference room. Several children were slumped against the wall, and one had gone so far as to plop down on his bottom and (apparently) take a nap. When the door opened they jumped and tried to straighten up. Reynie smiled at the pitiful attempt.

"Mark, you're up," he whispered to the oldest.

The stocky, blond twelve-year-old swallowed and crossed the hall. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You aren't … are you …"

Reynie smiled fondly. "I'm fine. Aren't I always? Now go; you oughtn't to keep him waiting."

The ominous clap of the door sounded behind him as he traversed the long hallway, involuntarily picking up speed at he went. Encounters with recruiters –– government officials who specialized in identifying Potentials, and who worked directly for the M.A.S.T.E.R –– always left him tense and nervous. He supposed it was all the adrenaline, gearing him up to fight or flee when in actuality what he needed most was to remain calm and not fidget.

At least he only had to do it once per year. That was more frequently than most children saw recruiters, but most children did not live at Stonetown Orphanage. Ledroptha Curtain, M.A.S.T.E.R and supreme leader of the country, took a special interest in Stonetown, that being his base of operations, and an _especially_ special interest in orphans, he himself being one. Reynie doubted that Potential was any more concentrated in orphans than in the general population, but the end of the matter was that every orphan was entitled to a thirty-minute interview each year with a Recruiter.

(And to think some might envy him! There were parents, no doubt, who drove their children to every open audition, hoping, _praying_ that their child might be chosen. How Reynie despised them, and how he pitied them, the poor deluded creatures.)

Every year, the Recruiters took some orphans and left others, and every year Reynie worked hard to make sure he was left behind. It wasn't easy pretending to be ordinary when in truth he was anything but. Necessity, however, required it. If Reynie allowed his mask to fall, even for a moment, he would be whisked away to Potential Training within the hour. And there Reynie would find himself well and truly caught, for a single misstep would out him as a resistant mind and send him to the camps.

No, it was best that he appear dull and ordinary. It wouldn't do at all for anyone to know that Reynie heard voices.

(_Let go your burdens with Curtain_)

Hearing voices might get a person killed.

(_Kill the heads and burn the stumps_

_Tear them out in lumps and clumps_)

It had all begun five years ago––the voices, that was. And the irritability, the strain, the angry buzzing that always swarmed around his head. In the beginning he had been a wreck, unable to concentrate, unable to speak without snapping. The most innocuous things had sent him over the edge. (The orphanage wardens had chalked it up to puberty, fortunately.) Eventually he'd learned to control himself, but by then a new world order was in place.

Voices. Amnesia. Mind control. _Curtain_.

It hadn't taken Reynie long to connect the Emergency to the web as well. How convenient to have a problem, and a man with a tailor-made solution to clear it right up. How wonderful to have Ledroptha Curtain. Just the name sent shivers down Reynie's spine.

At first, some had resisted. They'd been caught of course, and tortured. Reynie would never forget their names.

(_My name is Isaac Thaddeus. I murdered an executive; I strangled her so she wouldn't scream. I murdered her, yes, I murdered her._)

(_My name is Hannah Holiday. I conspired against the M.A.S.T.E.R. I wanted to hurt him. There were six of us––Justin Crowley was one, and Judy, his sister …_ )

(_Please don't hurt me, please please please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, they made me. I didn't want to do it! My name is –– my name is ––_)

They broadcast for a full month, night and day. The screams always seemed loudest at night. Reynie found that if he could survive that, he could survive anything.

As the years passed, Curtain's grasp on the country had only tightened. Reynie kept his head down and survived. He wondered, though, what exactly he was surviving for. Was a life of only this worth living?

Reynie suspected the answer was no. How much more could he take? What would happen when enough was enough?

Those questions he had no answers for.

Perhaps fortunately, then, that was the night Reynard Muldoon was kidnapped.


	2. The Prisoner's Dilemma

Food for thought: _Mysterious Benedict Society_ meets Lev Grossman's _The Magicians_. If you are familiar with both, you must write it. Now. Don't even read this chapter, just go write. When it's done, send it to me and I will rejoice.

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II. The Prisoner's Dilemma

_I'm on a boat_.

He knew before he opened his eyes. Wordlessly his mind analyzed the salt air, shrieking gulls, and gentle rocking, and came up with one answer:

_I'm on a boat. In the ocean. _

There was a piece of tape over his mouth and another binding his hands in front of his stomach. His legs were free, oddly enough, and he wasn't secured to any post or wall. He was cocooned in an orange mesh hammock.

He lost vision for an instant as he sat up. When the dizziness settled he saw that the cabin was small, perhaps eight by ten feet. Shabby but clean. The sandy wood floor was worn silky smooth by years of use.

Reynie clumsily pushed himself to his knees. He peered over the hammock edge. The floor was at least three feet down. Manageable, but Reynie was reluctant to take the fall. With his hands bound and his legs fast asleep, there was bound to be a crash landing at some point. He pawed at the hammock edge. Once he had secured his grip he began the arduous process of extricating his legs.

"I could help you."

Reynie flinched away from the voice. He hadn't realized anyone was in the cabin. But of course; he was a _prisoner_. Of course they would guard him. He felt silly for not having realized this earlier; and then anxious. _Who_ had taken him prisoner?

Curtain.

But this was not Curtain's style.

But Curtain could certainly _change_ his style, and that was just like him, too.

But any hypothesis with that much complexity ought to be rejected in favor of anything simpler.

Reynie turned toward the voice. The figure of a woman –– tall, lean, muscular –– loomed over him. She was young, blonde, and more attractive than a presumed kidnapper had any right to be.

She cracked her back.

Reynie winced.

"Buck up, old boy!" she said cheerfully. "If you promise you won't bite me, I'll have that tape off you in no time flat."

Reynie's eyes narrowed and he nodded carefully. She ripped the tape from his mouth in a fluid motion that left his lips stinging. She removed his wrist restraints just as quickly. Lightening fast, Reynie's hand shot out and grabbed hers. "Who are you?" he demanded. The words came out garbled. He tried again. "Who are you?"

"Easy, old boy," she warned. "You don't want to be doing that." Reynie only held on tighter. She looked almost approving as she twisted her own wrist, faster than Reynie could follow, reversing the grip, then let go and stepped backward. "We're friends."

"How many?"

"Oh, a few here and there," she said. "Just two of us on the boat. My name's Kate, by the way. Kate Wetherall. My friends call me 'The Great Kate Weather Machine'. I'd be honored if you'd call me that too."

She smiled wryly at Reynie's incredulous look. "Alright, they don't. But you could. It could be our special thing. I hope we'll be great friends, Reynard. There aren't a lot of people our age where I live, and you seem like a nice enough chap."

"What do you know?" Reynie croaked. "I've been unconscious."

Kate laughed merrily. "But now you're not. Let's be friends."

"It's Reynie, not Reynard," he said. "If we're on nickname terms."

"Mm."

A moment later he said, "You're awfully good, but I haven't forgotten. Who are you? Where are we? I suppose 'where are we going' is a good one too."

"Don't forget 'why am I here?'"

"That one's important, yeah."

Kate didn't reply and Reynie saw no need to press it. He felt oddly sanguine about the matter. He liked Kate, and he liked the cabin. He had _not_ liked the orphanage. Surely wherever he was going couldn't be worse than what he had left. The dry sea air smelled wonderful. He wanted to go outside and feel the spray, too.

He felt better than he had in a very long time, actually.

"Kate," he said experimentally. Her head popped up, shaggy blonde hair bouncing. "Can you promise me that no one on this boat or in the place you're taking me to means me ill, that I am in no danger –– well, no more than normal, anyway –– and that you are neither working for nor affiliated with Ledroptha Curtain?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, and yes. I think that's the right number of yeses."

Laughter bubbled up in Reynie's chest. "One extra, but I'll take that as added assurance. Why don't you want to answer my questions, then? I can see that you don't.

"No," she said quickly, "but only because I wouldn't be able to do it right, so you'd only end up more muddled."

"Alright. But someone _will_ answer them."

"Yes. When we get home. We're almost there."

"Then I'll wait." He smiled at her. Life looked very simple. It looked good. He didn't know why and he wasn't inclined to ask, lest it slip away in the details. "Might we go on deck?"

Kate sprang to her feet. "Oh, _let's_! Here, you'll need to hold onto me –– that's it –– alright!"

Reynie took a few wobbling steps. "Just out of curiosity, what did you use to knock me out?"

"Ketamine. Sorry. Probably isn't helping you find your sea legs."

Kate half-lifted Reynie up a set of steps. She propped a door open. "Well, go on."

The sun was blinding and white. Reynie groped for Kate's hand as he lost his balance once more; then her shoulder (her upper arm, really; she was rather tall) braced against his, and her arm snaked around his waist. Reynie felt the seaspray. It was glorious.

"Look, that's Milligan, my father, at the wheel, d'you see him?"

Reynie didn't. He had just realized why he felt so wonderfully ebullient. It was quiet, blessedly quiet. He heard the gulls and he heard Kate. It was a low, pleasant murmur. He enjoyed it. His head ached in the normal way –– the way for that five years had become _abnormal_, because the other was so painfully common. His head ached because he'd been drugged, and slept at a funny angle, and the sun was too bright. It was a good ache.

He didn't hear any voices.

The sky reflected blue and white on the water. Far off on the horizon he saw a low mass that might have been Stonetown or might have been something else entirely. Two bat-like storm petrels circled overhead. He felt the seaspray.

Reynie wept.


	3. The Girl in the Red Raincoat

III. The Girl in the Red Raincoat

The girl in the red raincoat was posing for a portrait again.

The Berlin street was awash in light and sound. A thin cloud cover stretched across the sky, filtering the sunlight into a translucent glow. Twenty feet on, two violins and a cello played a lilting trio that was all harmony and little melody.

The street artist had finished and was asking something in low undertones. He smelled of charcoal and linseed oil.

"Mein Name ist Constanze," she answered. He nodded and scribbled it diagonally under the drawing, then turned the easel for her to see. She liked it. She liked it a lot. _I must have posed for every street artist in this city_.

The nose of the Constanze on the Ingres paper was small and upturned. Her lips were downturned and petulant. _That's my nose. That's my mouth_. The paper Constanze differed from the real Constanze only in coloring: the real Constanze was decidedly pink.

The street artist ducked his head as he mumbled a rapid flurry of German. Constanze scowled. "Nein!" she snapped. "Ich gehe zum Museum."

"Das Museum ist nicht offen," he offered.

"Shut _up_." _Your stupid hair is like a mop / and when you move it flaps and flops._ For a moment she considered taking the picture and removing his memory of the encounter, but in the end decided it wasn't worth the headache.

Constanze pushed herself off the twisted metal bench and trotted down the sidewalk. At seven years old she looked her age and acted (sometimes) twice it. She was used to being on her own. Constanze was an adult in fact if not by law.

She crossed the Palace Bridge, losing herself in the meandering crowds. They were tourists and natives, students and elderly couples. Families with children like her. (Families with children as _unlike_ her as children could possibly be.) She pickpocketed a fat man and ate a hot dog, then flopped into a sunny flower bed in the cathedral garden, smiling angelically as a passing woman shot her a look of reproach.

The sun was disarmingly warm and gentle. Constanze's eyelids fluttered shut. When she woke the sun was red and almost set. Her chin was sticky with drool and the trefoil patch she'd used as a pillow was imprinted on her cheek. She waited until she was certain the cathedral was closed, then snuck inside. She used her blessedly small fingers and a silvery hair pin to pick the locks.

_It's no library, but it's home_, she thought. For almost four years now she'd slept in the Berlin Cathedral, wandering the city by day, returning (almost) every night. Constanze lived _above_ the city; she didn't work, didn't give. She took what she needed and left the rest, to come dancing back when she liked or, if she wished, to never return. While everyone else struggled to swim in the tumultuous, churning sea that was Berlin, Constanze walked atop the water.

It was awfully lonely, sometimes. Constanze remembered –– not _missed_, mind you, just remembered –– a house with a red door and a woman who once gave her a cupcake. It was frosted pink and had yellow sprinkles.

But something had changed. Constanze couldn't remember what. That was before things had gotten _really_ bad––before the voices and the splitting pains––but it had been bad enough then. So she had left the house with the red door, emancipated at the ripe old age of two.

She spent a year and a half living in an outside branch of the Stonetown public library system. And then the voices came, and she knew she had to escape or go insane. So she stowed away on a freight ship bound for God Knows Where and some two months later found herself on Museum Island.

Why the voices could not reach her here, Constanze didn't know. But here her head was blessedly empty; here she could think and sleep and write impossible rhymes for impossible times. No parents, no school, no rules –– _rules and schools are tools for fools; I don't give two mules for rules!_

And yet Constanze was not happy.

Unhappiness is a pernicious feeling. It seeps into your bones, and then whatever you look at seems unhappy too, until the entire world is colored blue and gray. The worst thing about unhappiness is that it knows ventriloquy; whatever appears to be the source is not necessarily so.

Constanze –– formerly Constance, still Contraire –– felt keenly the lack of something. _If only I knew what. _

But that was not for her to know for a long time yet, for had she discovered the truth then she would not have understood it and would perhaps have rejected it entirely.

Constanze peeled off the red raincoat and built herself a nest between two cardboard boxes in a dusty storage room. An old painting of Noah gathering the animals was propped on one of the boxes. She hated the picture. She hated Noah. A deep sense of foreboding came over her.

_This is the calm before the storm_, a voice –– one of her own –– whispered in her head.

And because Constanze could quote poetry too, quote poetry with the best of them, she thought: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. / The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space …

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Drop a review, would you?


	4. Enemy of My Enemy

IV. Enemy of My Enemy

"Welcome to the jungle," said Milligan. His teeth gleamed white in his tanned and weather-beaten face. He was an alright sort of guy, Reynie decided.

Surveying the island ahead, Reynie saw what he meant. Aside from a thin strip of dazzlingly pale sand at the water's edge, the entire island was covered by thick, tangled vegetation. "You live _here_?" he said incredulously. He began to laugh, slowly at first, then in full-body convulsions until tears streamed down his face.

Kate and Milligan wore identical madcap grins.

"God," said Reynie. "Oh, _God_. I suppose there's pirates and buried treasure, and quicksand––"

"Rodents of Unusual Size."

"Mermaids in the lagoon."

"_Naked_ mermaids," added Milligan. He steered the boat to the rear of the island, where there was a crystal-blue lagoon enclosed by rocky outcrops. It looked like tricky steering –– Reynard suspected that for every visible rock there were two more just under the surface –– but Milligan appeared to have it well in hand. He whistled a jaunty tune as he eased the boat into a hidden cove.

_Ridiculous_, thought Reynie. They sailed into a cave concealed by hanging ivy and continued along an underground stream for some ways.

Kate sang nonsense syllables to Milligan's whistling, which Reynie thought sounded familiar but couldn't quite place. She caught his eye and mimed playing a trumpet.

He gave up trying to name it on the third chorus and, with a helpless shrug, joined in.

Milligan tied the boat to a corroded iron mooring post, then jumped overboard. He plunged into the water and emerged about ten meters away, wading towards a sandy bank.

Reynie followed Kate over the railing. He was not a particularly good swimmer. The water was pleasantly cool in contrast to the humid tunnel air.

Kate reached the shore long before him, of course, and when he arrived she pulled him sopping wet from the water. Her viselike grip nearly wrenched his arm from the socket, but she didn't seem to notice in the slightest.

Without a word Milligan and Kate set off through a tangled warren of tunnels which seemed to depart further and further from the light. They walked quickly. Reynie struggled to keep up. At last he felt the floor begin a slow incline, and some minutes later they emerged, blinking, into the sun. Milligan handed Reynie a pair of sunglasses. Putting them on, he saw that Kate and Milligan wore none of their own, and yet seemed to have no trouble navigating. Reynie suspected it would not matter if they had been completely blind; they might have as easily navigated by sound or smell.

They resumed walking almost immediately. Reynie trotted after them for about an hour. Judging from the position of the sun, which seemed unusually close and bright, it was late morning. Before long he was dripping with sweat. Salt ran in his eyes and stung with every blink. He was loath to ask how much longer they must walk.

Just when Reynie was certain he could go no further, Milligan stopped. They had transversed the island, which was much smaller than Reynie had realized. Still there were no signs of settlements. Reynie wondered if Kate's people might be literally underground.

They were on the edge of the jungle, looking out on the water. It was the most beautiful beach Reynie had ever seen, in movies or in books. Stonetown was situated on the Atlantic coast, and waterfront access could be found in wealthier neighborhoods, but Reynie's own experience with beaches was largely restricted to impossible daydreams about being shipwrecked on glamorous tropical islands à la _The Blue Lagoon_.

Kate slipped her hand into his. She wore a mischievous grin. A question formed on the tip of his tongue, but he shut his mouth abruptly as Kate pressed a finger to her lips. She pointed at Milligan.

Reynie watched confusedly as the older man pushed at a seemingly immovable boulder. To his surprise (though really, in hindsight, he felt he should have expected it) it slid cleanly away, revealing a hatch. Out of this Milligan pulled a mass of fabric and plastic tubing. It looked, thought Reynie, very much like a folding chair.

It was not. (You _idiot_, grumbled the internal critic.)

It was another boat. Or rather three, plus paddles.

They were coracle-type crafts, and the fabric was not so much fabric as plastic polymer. It sported a blue, green, and gray camouflage pattern that Reynie expected would be very difficult to spot in the water.

Silently Milligan assembled the coracles. Then he reached back into the hatch and pulled out three puffy black jackets. Reynie realized as he pulled his on that it was a flotation device as well as windbreaker.

They moved to the edge of the water. Milligan waded out to kee depth, then swung into his coracle. Reynie hastened to do the same, but Kate forestalled him. "Just watch for a bit," she whispered. Reynie wiped his clammy hands on his shorts and nodded, relieved. He had not been at all sure he could pilot the coracle.

Milligan paddled his coracle with exaggerated movements. Reynie's sharp eyes followed him carefully. He flicked his own paddle experimentally, mimicking Milligan's motions. Finally he nodded to Kate. He was ready –– as much as was practically possible.

Managing the coracle was easier than expected, once he'd gotten over his initial awkwardness. It was unsettling to sit so high in the water. Even the tiniest waves sent the coracle bobbing. The first few jolts panicked him, but as the boat repeatedly failed to capsize he grew more confident.

Reynie paddled quietly and efficiently. The sea was blessedly calm. Every so often Kate or Milligan would glance backward to check on him, but Reynie got the sense that this was more for his own peace of mind than any real safety concern.

The island grew smaller and smaller behind them. Reynie's head was full of shouting questions, but he dared not ask any of them without knowing why Kate and Milligan remained silent. For all he knew they had very good reasons; he had no wish to mess things up and possibly place them in danger.

His questions were so _urgent_, though. Where were they going? _Why_? It recurred to him that he had been kidnapped, and perhaps ought to be a bit more skeptical. But the rules were broken and had been for five years. Up was down and blue was green. But enemies were still enemies; that much had not changed. Being kidnapped might have been the best thing that had ever happened to him.

_An enemy of Ledroptha Curtain is a friend of mine_. _If Kate and Milligan are the resistance, they are most definitely my friends_.

Unless they were an _incompetent_ resistance, of course, in which case this little jaunt was likely to get them all killed.

Reynie preferred to believe otherwise.

The voice of an old friend rose unbidden in his mind. Dear Miss Perumal, his tutor from a time long past. He had neither seen nor heard from her in years, and suspected she had been one of the unconfirmed victims of the Purge, but he knew exactly what she would say. _Belief is not enough, Reynie! Think! Concentrate on what you know, and work from there._

Well, what _did_ he know?

First, Kate and Milligan were members of the resistance, which apparently had not been wiped out in the terrifying first months after Ledroptha Curtain assumed power. They were based somewhere far south of Stonetown. Assuming a straight path south (and Reynie did _not_ assume this, for that would have been too simple), they could not possibly have sailed past Cape Branco at the easternmost tip of Brazil. Reynie guessed they hadn't gone nearly so far, and were somewhere in the Caribbean.

Second, coracles were not meant for long distances. This meant the home island must be nearby; and if it was nearby, it must be relatively low-lying, because Reynie could not yet see it. The last island had been only a relay point; they were laying a false trail. For who? Curtain. A precaution, not a trap; you didn't try to trap Ledroptha Curtain unless you intended to put every last thing you had into it. This made Reynie feel much better. The resistance was taking precautions. The resistance was _smart_.

Third, Ledroptha Curtain was not all-powerful.

That one gave Reynie a shock. The voices did not transmit here. Reynie had not known they had a limited range. Was this only a blind spot? Or was it indicative of something far larger?

Was it possible that Ledroptha Curtain was not, in fact, Minister And Secretary of _all_ The Earth's Regions?

And if he was not, what kept him at bay? (It was not a limit of ambition.)

For the first time in years, Reynie felt a glimmer of hope. Ledroptha Curtain was not omniscient. He was not omnipotent. He was only an old man in a wheelchair.

Reynie let hope fuel his tired muscles. He paddled with single-minded determination. When at long last the coracle scraped the shore on another isle, Reynie toppled from his seat and pressed his cheek into the firm wet sand. He was too tired to do anything but breathe. His muscles were numb and his skin was raw from the salt spray. He felt cool hands on his back and forehead, and then he was heaved into the surprisingly gentle arms of a giant and carried away. Sleep, when it came, was unconscionably sweet.


End file.
